


(keep in touch)

by nisakomi



Category: EXO (Band), K-pop
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-04 23:42:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5352797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nisakomi/pseuds/nisakomi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a series of touches, there's a missed connection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(keep in touch)

  
Jongin reaches around to put his hand on Lu Han’s hip, giving a forceful tug so that Lu Han has to do a shuffle with his feet in order to prevent falling. The look on Lu Han’s face is incredulous; his wide eyes, mouth slightly agape and windblown hair stun Jongin in their proximity.  
  
The moment is quickly lost when another flash goes off and Jongin flinches. They walk in stride, heads ducked down, with their manager scurrying behind them. He’s a tiny little thing, who is completely useless at his job because his presence does nothing to keep the fans at bay.  
  
Jongin can’t help but let his fingers linger.  
  
Under the elastic of Lu Han’s jacket, no one can see Jongin curling his fingers around the bone, pressing the pads down protectively. Not possessively. Lu Han’s other hip is confined by Jongin’s leg. Lu Han’s enclosed in a transparent box of Jongin, surrounded by Jongin, and Jongin, if he could be truly omnipresent, would be everywhere so that none of the fans would ever pester them. Lu Han would breathe Jongin, live Jongin, and scream Jongin’s name to try to get out. Never.  
  
No, now he’s projecting.  
  
There are usually cycles in the fan reactions. It starts with screaming, but you can only scream and jog after someone for so long. Your throat gets tired, you can’t catch your breath, your voice cracks or everyone else stops screaming and you look like a tool for being the only one left. Besides, when everyone there is quiet, the fancams are better quality. People take videos. Well, most fans take videos. Only the truly inexperienced ones take pictures, everyone else knows that you will never get a long enough pause for a focused shot.  
  
After a stretch of quiet chase where phones and DSLRs alike shakily capture the image of two people walking as their owners too march along against the wind, the bravest of the bunch will pipe up with a question. Sometimes it’s totally safe. Simple yes-no inquiries like, “are you sleeping well?” with a “take care of yourself!” tagged on.  
  
These questions make Jongin feel touched when he’s feeling down, and irrationally aggravated when it’s been a long day. But that’s nothing compared to his reaction to the invasive questions. Today, it’s “Lu Han, do you have a girlfriend?”  
  
Something in him snaps. He glares steadily ahead and clenches one hand in a fist, digs the nails of the other sharply into Lu Han’s hip.  
  
It's usually around this time that they come across a crosswalk, a car, a crowd, or some type of barrier that helps them get rid of the fans. It’s generally combined with the angry scolding of their manager, telling them to get lost, asking them if they don’t have school or homework or families or any shame for that matter.  
  
Those little fuckers probably wouldn’t know shame if it was clinging to their hips as hard as Jongin was clinging to Lu Han’s right now. Those little fuckers. The light changes and the manager stops the girl from following them by grabbing onto her arm. He’s sacrificed himself to rescue them from her clutches. Lu Han and Jongin make their escape, speed walking across the road and down a sidewalk to safety.  
  
  
  
  
  
Lu Han clings just a little. He likes that everyone around him holds him close. That image of a delicate china doll, perfectly smooth porcelain. When you slide your finger down its face, the coldness leaves you with a tingling sensation. He is that doll. He’s dressed up and made up and taken around. He’s shown off and held up. At night, people whisper their secrets to him, taking him to their pillows, crying softly on the folds of his gown.  
  
He’s projecting.  
  
Broken porcelain is sharp. There’s a memory. It’s hazy now, but the soft features of his mother are still there so he knows it must be real. It must have taken place when he was four, maybe five – and even more careless with himself than he is now, in their condo. Building C, room 1702. Or was it 1712? He remembers a small table covered in a large plastic mat decorated with numbers and characters and a multiplication table. He remembers a plastic red chair.  
  
The sound it made was earth shattering. It was a simple slip, chopsticks teetering over the edge, and when he reached out to grab them, his hand sent the fragile bowl tumbling down. The fall happened in slow motion, the shattering into pieces in super speed. He remembers looking forlornly at the dumplings and reaching down to pick one up. He remembers touching a jagged piece, yelping with surprise.  
  
The red blood that seeped out of his fingers terrified him. Maybe it was the thought that he had broken a bowl that terrified him. Maybe even the sound of it crashing down was what terrified him. He can’t remember. As he ran up to his mother, crying into her apron, he shrieked out, “ow, ow”.  
  
Broken porcelain is piercing. The jaded pieces inside him are lethal. If anyone gets too close, if anyone leans in to touch, they immediately have to retract their fingers. Whether from the pain, or from the coldness, no one can get into the transparent bowl he’s made around himself.  
  
In order to appear vulnerable to others, you have to be secure about yourself. Lu Han’s been broken into too many pieces to have any assuredness. There’s an ounce of integrity needed to make vulnerability real. Lu Han has none of that veracity in him, but he’s a damn good liar.  
  
He makes pretend. In return, he receives the protection of the others. He feels Jongin’s fingers touching him, gripping his hip. For a moment, he turns a smooth piece of himself outward, lifting his face to reveal only an unmarred side.  
  
Jongin feels Lu Han’s bones jutting out. Lu Han feels Jongin. He lets their hips brush together, and leans into the warmth. There’s a dumpling to be had, yet.  
  
  
  
  
  
Lu Han combs his fingers through Jongin’s hair. He slowly massages his scalp, rubbing firm but gentle circles into the skin. He lifts his hand to stroke Jongin’s jaw before moving back up to his hair and flattening it down. The arm of the sofa supports his elbow and he shifts his head to rest it against his hand. The streets below are still, and Lu Han’s gaze is best described as ‘quiet’.  
  
Jongin makes a soft noise with his throat. He raises an arm to cover his eyes, keeping his palm up. One of his legs lies straight across the couch, and the other is bent at the knee.  
  
“Jongin, do you ever wonder if the people around you would be happier if you had never existed in their lives?” Lu Han’s voice is like a paintbrush, and the colours that fill Jongin’s ears are beautiful pastels. Lu Han clasps his other hand with Jongin’s and their fingers twine over Jongin’s face.  
  
“No.”  
  
Silence stretches between them and Lu Han considers letting the conversation end there. After a long while Lu Han asks, “No?”  
  
The syllables are drawn out and hang in the air briefly.  
  
Lu Han wonders if he’ll receive a reply before Jongin’s lips curl and he scoffs. From Lu Han’s angle it looks weird, because instead of his mouth moving vertically, it opens and closes horizontally. “No, I never wonder shit like that.”  
  
“Do you think happiness can be taken away and given? Does it ever seem so blatantly obvious that you can’t be happy? Do you ever feel inclined, as a result, to take away other people’s happiness?”  
  
Jongin raises an eyebrow, “No? What the fuck has gotten into you today?”  
  
Lu Han purses his lips. The expression on his face becomes serene.  
  
Jongin has responded with a question, but Lu Han has no answers. He’s too uncomfortable sharing anything specific about himself, even if he did have a suitable response. But nothing sounds appropriate.  
  
I’m unhappy. He could say that, but he wouldn’t say why or how he really feels or thinks or reflects. He would never reveal anything that could be pinned clearly to him.  
  
The point of life is to create. He could say that, but he wouldn’t say why or how. He wouldn’t say that he’s obsessed with creating a fleeting image of himself – one that isn’t true or even partially complete.  
  
I want you to believe. He could say that, but he wouldn’t say in what. Lu Han wants people to think certain things about him and the world, wants Jongin to see a piece of himself that doesn’t exist so that he can grasp on it and not look for something more.  
  
“Jongin, name something concrete about me.”  
  
Jongin stirs from a nap-like state. He hums for a moment before saying seriously, “You’re pretty.” He gestures lazily with his hand in Lu Han’s general direction. “Pretty as princess peach.”  
  
Lu Han laughs like a tinkering of anklets on a group of graceful dancers. He wishes he cared enough to receive that compliment – then at least, he might actually need others. But here, he recognizes that the weight of Jongin’s head on his thigh is soothing. He acknowledges a feeling of belonging as Jongin lets out a quiet snore.  
  
  
  
  
The vibration of Jongin’s cellphone wakes them both up. Jongin opens his eyes to see Lu Han’s head lolled to the side, leaning awkwardly against his hand. There’s a red line along the crease of his wrist, and Jongin thinks that it must feel painful and numb after the impromptu nap. One of Jongin’s hands is numb from where it was jammed half under his back and half under Lu Han’s thigh. He tentatively withdraws the fingers from his other hand away from Lu Han’s grasp. The loss of touch gets Lu Han to grumble.  
  
“What’s the sound coming from?” He asks without opening his eyes.  
  
“My hand phone.” Jongin replies, looking up at the back of his own thumb.  
  
“Where is it?”  
  
Jongin lifts his leg to point at the table with his foot.  
  
Lu Han completely misses the motion, but asks anyway, “Are you going to get it?”  
  
Jongin shrugs. Lu Han doesn’t see this either.  
  
Jongin lifts his hand up to Lu Han’s forehead, brushing back bangs and running a few strands of hair between two fingers.  
  
He lowers his hand slightly, brushing his thumb over the bridge of Lu Han’s nose. He runs the back of his fingers across his cheekbones and traces his jawline. When he reaches Lu Han’s throat, his fingers dance slowly downward before splaying across Lu Han’s collarbones. He rests when he gets to Lu Han’s chest, dropping his hand back onto his face.  
  
“No.”  
  
“No?” Jongin strongly suspects that Lu Han’s forgotten the question already.  
  
“If it’s someone important, they’ll come looking for us.” Besides, they don’t have schedules for the day. Everyone knows that M and K like to spend as much of their free time together as possible whenever they actually can. Especially with the split in rehearsal times and living arrangements, being in separate countries most of the time, they treasure every moment together as best as they can.  
  
“Us?”  
  
“Yes,” Jongin tilts his head to the side to give a smirk Lu Han can’t see, “In case you can’t count, there are two of us.”  
  
“I can count!” Lu Han is so indignant that his eyelids flutter. Jongin’s hopeful that his eyes will open but Lu Han’s eyes remain lidded.  
  
“Oh good, maybe you can try learning to read now too.”  
  
Lu Han lets out a snort, slapping absently at Jongin’s stomach.  
  
“Excellent, I see you’re doing music exercises. Your rhythm’s off but let’s move on to melodies.”  
  
The giggles are falling now, tumbling out of Lu Han’s lips and threatening to be the start of outright laughter.  
  
“Hey, snap out of it, you can’t read music if your eyes are closed.”  
  
Lu Han squints his eyes open for the first time in the conversation.  
  
“I’m sleepy. Stop nagging me.” Lu Han pulls down the corners of his mouth, pouting without any sadness.  
  
Jongin flutters his eyelashes purposefully. He draws down Lu Han’s gaze towards him. Jongin holds it, pulling it towards him slowly, like a string. He regards him with complete awareness of their proximity. Their shared look is one of dreams from the past, the present, and the future. It’s an image of promise - creating life, overcoming unhappiness, and believing in each other.  
  
It’s the appearance of belonging.  
  
  
  
  
  
They stand on stage, walking, bowing at the seniors, smiling, laughing, singing, dancing. And touching.  
  
  
  
  
  
Jongin leans down with his chest, folding himself in half. He touches the palm of his right hand to Lu Han’s lower back, both supporting himself and the other. It’s a comforting touch, one of tender warmth. He lets the photographers see the top of his head and straightens himself up, keeping his hand on Lu Han.  
  
Jongin tries to channel himself through the touch. He holds on tightly, spreading himself through his fingertips. The energy within him seeps through the fabric of the blazer, through the cotton of his shirt, and through supple skin. He thinks he can feel them connect through that touch, as if his heart is pumping blood from Jongin’s body straight into Lu Han’s bloodstream.  
  
The photographs capture the moment in a twisted manner. Some pictures get only their upper bodies, with Jongin and Lu Han smiling at the cameras. It’s a look of cool assuredness, and perhaps satisfaction. There’s charisma oozing from the frame, some kind of magnetism that draws your eyes immediately towards them and requiring a pull for you to look away.  
  
The allure in the full body shots is a little bit different. There’s a sense of protection in them, of brotherhood and companionship - something that screams band mates or friendship from the top of a mountain. The appeal here is more emotional, less physical.  
  
An image is taken of them that Jongin is unaware of.  
  
Someone off to the side is speaking. Jongin can’t see them from his place down the line at least five or six individuals away. He’s not really paying attention; instead, he’s schooling his features in a collected mask for the cameras. Lu Han whispers something that might be a translation and Jongin snorts a little at the ridiculousness of how stuffy these events are. Lu Han follows with a comment on a journalist’s suit and Jongin turns his head and laughs.  
  
The laugh is full and resonant, mouth open, eyes scrunched together in pure delight. Lu Han’s laughing too, all teeth and laugh lines. The lights flash at this moment, cameras greedily gobble up their pleasure, and the vulnerability written on their faces.  
  
Some people think you’re most exposed when you’re unhappy.  
  
They’re wrong. It’s in the happiest moments that you’re most susceptible to pain.  
  
  
  
  
  
They share small moments that Jongin clings to in the back of his mind. Sometimes, he’ll clear his thoughts and just try to picture the curve of Lu Han’s cheekbones. Hearing his laugh reinforces the memory, and he practices this every day to never lose his favourite memories. He’s careful to store each of them, touching them to his heart and etching the lines there like the lines Lu Han’s eyes crinkle into when he laughs.  
  
The best moments are inside jokes. They’re sitting; in plain view of hundreds of people, and listening to the emcee deliver scripted lines that lack real humour. Suddenly he says a phrase that keys into a memory.  
  
“Princess Peach.”  
  
He looks over at Lu Han and in that instant they both know they’re reminiscing about the same memory. He isn’t quite sure if that memory itself was so funny, or if the fact that the emcee had said it was humorous, or just that they had both looked at each other and noted the irony. Either way, both of them laughed loudly then, mouths wide open, sharing in private hilarity. Jongin claps his hands together just once, and the memory dissipates, but the amusement in his heart lasts.  
  
  
  
  
  
It’s the formality of the event that makes Lu Han so amused. Smart suits, crisp collared shirts, clean ties, hair slicked back and make up melting on their faces – it all seemed so silly. Their fans are fucking crazy, spending hours raising those votes. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that they would ever have so many fans, and such deeply involved fans. How did they care so much? How could they invest so much of their emotional and physical lives into them? How do they have the time?  
  
He’s grateful. He’s grateful because an award is an award is an award. It’s a concrete, definite and real symbol of success. It’s a solid sense of achievement. He’s grateful because he doesn’t have that kind of selflessness. In some ways, he wonders if they’d share their sense of empathy with him. He thinks if he could go back to that time before he was a trainee, just so he can remember what it was like to feel so strongly about something. That life would move him, and would be filled with meaning.  
  
In some ways, it feels like they’re all trying to go back to their trainee days. No matter how difficult it was back then, no matter how much uncertainty there was and endless days of waiting – the burden of expectation wasn’t on their backs then. Their shoulder slumped from messing up in practice, but never because they screwed up on stage. Mistakes meant you were berated, not publically criticized. You could do dumb shit without your every move being criticized. More importantly was a sense of being alive. He wishes he were more grateful during those trainee years. The years when he felt like he was moving towards his dreams might have been the happiest of his life. Now, he’s too exhausted at any given point in time to even consider what the future might hold for them.  
  
Before he sinks too deeply into his thoughts, he feels Jongin’s hand on the small of his back. He’s grateful for that too.  
  
When he comes out of his stupor, they’re about to take a bow. He bends quickly, ducking his head and staying with his body lowered until Jongin’s bent down beside him. The hand on his back is an anchoring point, holding him to the present moment and to the red carpet.  
  
Their shiny polished dress shoes reflect the heavy spotlights and camera flashes. He thinks he can probably make out people’s faces in the reflections if he tries hard enough. He glances down quickly before standing up. In this glance, he catches sight of an oddly dressed man. His suit is too long for his torso, the hem ending at his upper thighs. But the sleeves are too short, cutting off inches above his wrist.  
  
After quickly translating whatever is being said, Lu Han points out the man’s outfit to Jongin. They share a laugh that’s almost dizzying. Lu Han feels blood pumping to his brain, and the light-headedness he feels brings a new lighter perspective on the event.  
  
The moment is like the breaking of a dam, and a river of snark flows forth from both of them afterwards. Jongin makes up sentences for the emcee to stay, and Lu Han doesn’t know whether to laugh harder when statements matched up or when phrases are completely ridiculous.  
  
And then the signings come. The marker in his hand is a dead weight, reminding him the amusement and joy he experiences at each moment is not without responsibilities or obligations. He twirls it between his fingers as they turn around to the banner behind him.  
  
It’s an instinctive action to reach out and steady Jongin, placing his hand on Jongin’s shoulder. He presses the palm of his hand into Jongin’s shoulder blade, which is sharp and strong as Jongin reaches up with his uncapped marker, pondering carefully on where exactly to leave his mark. The hand on his back moves to the top of his shoulder. Lu Han watches with a quiet alertness, as if wherever Jongin puts down the letters ‘K’, ‘A’, and ‘I’, will be pinpoint precisely where his heart lies on the map. Jongin finally decides the location and carefully writes out his stage name with a practiced flourish.  
  
Maps need to be impeccably accurate. If they aren’t, it’s easy to get lost. Jongin’s map is only minutely incorrect. Lu Han’s heart does not lie on the spaces that read KAI. It lies in a city named Kim Jongin, and the difference is so small that outsiders would never know. But Lu Han, a weary traveller, is following that diagram to a T, and with the mistake comes disorientation. Lu Han is adrift now, caught out at sea with no idea how to get to the town he wants to go to.  
  
When he finally figures out what direction to head in, he’s wasted two days worth of food and water. The glaring light beats down on his brow. It’s this delay that means when he finally arrives, the gates to the city are closed. Lu Han sighs and leaves graffiti on the wall in the form of his name.  
  
  
  
  
  
There is no misfortune, defeat, or hardship in his life that Lu Han can name. There’s never been a moment when he’s had to work for something. Beyond a day-to-day existence, he’s never really wanted something badly enough to put in a little effort. That’s painful. That’s living. But the way Lu Han’s living is not life.  
  
Out of all of the people he’s met, Jongin’s the only person who could possibly understand what Lu Han is feeling.  
  
Unfortunately, Jongin cares even less than Lu Han does. So he supposes he’s not completely apathetic, not if he wants to care. He has to care at least a little bit. Which is more than anyone can say about Jongin, who goes around living his life without a need for anyone else. He has no dependence and no emotion.  
  
Lu Han can imagine other people hating Jongin. Hating his carefree attitude and nonchalance about everything. Hating the utter lack of respect and interest he has in the rest of the world. Hating the fact that he’s good, so good, so good naturally that regardless of what they say, it just ends up sounding like bitter jealousy.  
  
Lu Han’s isn’t quite sure if he can even begin to imagine hating Jongin.  
  
If he were to hate anyone, Jongin would not be the person to hate. But hatred takes up so much time and energy. Lu Han does not have enough _care_ in him to invest that much emotion in someone else, especially in a negative manner. He’s emotionally limited as it is and when he runs dry, even the laughs that he lets out will sound like plastic.  
  
  
  
  
  
Jongin isn’t particular about materials. He doesn’t need a diamond ring, or any kind of wedding invitations. He just needs something firm and real in his life. There’s been enough decoration already. Something about Lu Han makes him like a puzzle piece. Lu Han, for all rights and purposes, should be like a beautiful piece of artwork, hanging from a wall, with no uses except to be easy on the eyes.  
  
Instead, he’s taken up a space in Jongin’s living room, much more like an elegant sofa. He’s chic and gorgeous to look at, but serves a primary functional purpose in this space. You could even say that Lu Han had somehow become a centrepiece. All one had to do was turn on the lamp, and voila, he was there.  
  
The trouble was that Jongin had sat on that couch for so long without flicking on the light switch. He hadn’t seen Lu Han, hadn’t noticed him be moved in, and accepted his presence as a constant. He looked, but in the darkness, he didn’t see. For him, there was a flicker at their showcase, so early on, but what really got the room to fill with brightness was when the sofa disappeared, and Jongin was forced to turn the light on to figure out what had happened.  
  
  
  
  
  
In the early morning, Lu Han leans slightly against Jongin’s shoulder. They feed off each other’s warmth in the line to airport security. They’re surrounded by glaring managers, chatting band mates, and intrigued strangers. In the hubbub of noise, they are like an island of calm reprieve. They are each other’s sanctuary. Jongin touches the back of his knuckles to Lu Han’s and they stay there, barely touching for a moment that feels like eternity.  
  
“Lu Han,” Jongin whispers, shaking the other to alertness. “Come on.”  
  
“What time is it?” Lu Han asks, fingering his passport and clutching it loosely by his side.  
  
“Time to get the fuck away from the fangirls,” Jongin mutters and Lu Han smiles fondly.  
  
They travel through and Lu Han eventually joins up with some others in a duty free store, looking at bags and kitschy tourist items for fun. He twirls between aisles, looking at souvenirs as if they’re novelty items, pretending to get really excited by pictures of monuments he’s already visited. The silliness is an act.  
  
Jongin makes his way to the waiting area. He touches his nose to the cold windowpane in front of him. He leans back on his heels and spreads his arms out into the space around him.  
  
I am the airplane, Jongin thinks quietly. That boarding gate is closing pretty soon. If Lu Han doesn’t check his baggage fast enough, I’m going to end up taking off without him. He’ll be stranded in a terminal with no transportation, no destination, and no sense of location.  
  
Lost.  
  
Lu Han giggles at something and looks up from the keychain in his hand. He sees Jongin standing, alone. It’s a good opportunity to speak to him before they leave and get caught up in a whirlwind of press, interviews, performances, and other activities.  
  
He takes a step forward and hangs the keychain back on its hook. Someone calls Lu Han’s name he whips his head around, but doesn’t notice anyone. He’s not looking very hard. He takes two steps forward, and swings the strap of his bag more securely on his shoulder.  
  
The chance slips through his fingers, and Lu Han watches as someone catches Jongin’s attention. On the plane, however, Jongin insists on sitting beside him, and Lu Han happily complies. They hover by the window, angling their bodies to avoid being photographed in general. They link pinkie fingers right before take off.  
  
They’ve flown so many times but Lu Han’s heart still jumps into his throat every time. He closes his eyes and prays to higher authorities he doesn’t believe in. Beside him, Jongin curls into the pillow around his neck and watches through the window as South Korea disappear from underneath them. Just as they start levelling out, Jongin leans over and presses his lips against Lu Han’s collarbones. It’s so fast and so light that Lu Han thinks he must’ve imagined it. They fly above the clouds. Lu Han feels like his head’s above the clouds.  
  
A tingling sensation remains with Lu Han the entire time they’re in China. He shies away from Jongin as much as possible, keeping a distance from him on stage, and generally keeping company with the other members at other times. It’s not difficult to avoid someone in a band of 12 people, when everyone’s so busy it’s hard to keep track of where you’re supposed to be, much less anyone else. But Jongin notices, and it’s a sharp kind of pain in his gut. He wonders if he did something wrong.  
  
When a touch sends so much electricity through him, makes him feel above the world, and seems so right – Jongin doesn’t believe it’s possible for that to be wrong. He doesn’t think he could stop himself from touching Lu Han even if he wanted to; there was a carnal craving in him, one that desired contact with Lu Han’s skin always. That presence, aura, comfort, all the gentle smiles and long eyelashes, tinkling laughter, everything, Jongin wants it all.  
  
He sulks when he’s denied what he wishes. Those who he snipes at and who bear the full brunt his most sarcastic and bitchy mood feel Lu Han’s absence in Jongin’s life most strongly. His makeup coordinator almost gets her fingers bitten off for getting the eyeliner too close to his eye, and Jongin watches in the mirror as Lu Han looks up in concern. Their eyes meet in the middle and Lu Han looks away.  
  
Jongin curses. And he curses for the rest of their trip. He’s awake now, but Lu Han’s already out of touch.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
K returns to Korea without M. They have a secret redeye flight and Jongin wakes up to find that Lu Han has been sitting in the corner of his hotel room on a chaise for the entire night, not sleeping. He doesn’t question how he got in or why he’s there Lu Han’s staring outside when Jongin touches his shoulder gently. Lu Han jumps at the cool contact. When Jongin makes to take his hand away, Lu Han immediately grabs it, pressing it back down. He holds Jongin’s hand there and takes a deep breath. Jongin squeezes gently, massaging tense neck muscles and stays standing there until the lump on the other bed shows signs of waking up, and Lu Han slowly makes his way back to his own room.  
  
Lu Han ends up asking to go with them to the airport, since he’s awake anyway. Breakfast is a fairly dull affair, with no one allowed to eat much due to their diets and the usually rowdy ones rather subdued because of the hour, which is early even for them. Even though it was supposed to be a secret departure, there’s still a small army camped out at the airport waiting to wave obnoxiously bright signs at them.  
  
Jongin forces a smirk and Lu Han huddles over in his hoodie, slipping on sunglasses and willing the fans not to see him through the windows of the car. He grabs Jongin by the leg before he gets out.  
  
“Keep in touch,” he says quietly. Jongin nods. It comes to Lu Han’s attention that they’re alone in the vehicle. If he just stole a kiss now, no one would see. He squeezes Jongin’s thigh and starts to lean in.  
  
Lu Han can’t. He swallows his love and his pride and hides his heart from the one he cherishes the most. He lets Jongin fly away.

 


End file.
